


assurances of attachment

by Elizabeth (anghraine)



Series: First Impressions [5]
Category: AUSTEN Jane - Works, Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Love Confessions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 13:57:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12014199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anghraine/pseuds/Elizabeth
Summary: Henry breaks the news of his engagement to his father.





	assurances of attachment

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a long time ago (four years? five?) and forgot to post it. I think I had the vague idea of turning it into something longer, but that is pretty improbable at this point.

_Elizabeth, still more affected, was earnest and solemn in her reply; and at length, by repeated assurances that Mr Darcy was really the object of her choice, by explaining the gradual change which her estimation of him had undergone, relating her absolute certainty that his affection was not the work of a day, but had stood the test of many months suspense, and enumerating with energy all his good qualities, she did conquer her father’s incredulity, and reconcile him to the match._

 

Henry had lain awake for hours, thinking of—among other things—how on earth he was to introduce the subject of his impending marriage to his father. Not, of course, that a man of five and twenty needed permission to marry any woman he chose, much less a man of five and twenty with his family’s estate entailed upon him, but he knew Mr Bennet would disapprove of the object of his choice, would be made unhappy, even. Of course that could not compare with the joy of Catherine’s acceptance, but—he  _was_  sorry that he, his father’s favourite, would likely be paining him as much as Lydia had, and could not help but wish for Mr Bennet’s blessing.

Surely, Henry thought, staring up at the canopy over his bed, there had to be some way to ease into the subject. No solution, however, presented itself, and he decided to leave tomorrow’s concerns for the morrow. His mind veered back to Catherine’s impossible constancy, and the sweetness underneath her pride and awkward reserve, never more apparent than when she stammered through a declaration of her affections—he had very nearly kissed her on the spot—and, too, how well stunned happiness became her.  
  
He had always thought her handsome, but she had never seemed quite so beautiful as in that moment. Of course, he did not love her for her beauty; once, it had only made him dislike her more. Now, however—well, she  _was_  very lovely, and really, was it not his duty to appreciate it? He felt certain Catherine would agree with him on this point.  
  
He drifted off, content, and slept soundly. The next day, he marched into his father’s study. Irrationally, he wished Catherine were with him; her presence would make this interview all the worse, of course, but he would have liked to borrow some of her unassailable dignity.  
  
Mr Bennet glanced up from his book, pleased, if startled by Henry’s abrupt entrance.  
  
“Hal, my boy,” he said amiably. “You look as if the hounds of hell were at your heels. Has Mrs Bennet’s joy overwhelmed you?”  
  
“Yes,” said Henry. Then: “No. That is—I do not know, I am not—escaping my mother is not my purpose in speaking to you. It is another matter, a matter of—but there is no point in prevaricating further.” He braced himself. “I have made an offer of marriage, sir, to Miss Darcy.”  
  
Mr Bennet lowered his book and lifted his eyes. Then he rubbed his temples. Henry, though flushing—this was  _his_  fault, for maligning her so intemperately, for so long—refused to lower his gaze.  
  
“I seem to have misheard you,” said Mr Bennet finally. “Though, as far as I can tell, my hearing is in good order; perhaps you misspoke. Surely you meant Miss Dancy—or Miss Darling—or even Miss Long: anyone, in fact, but Miss Darcy.”  
  
Henry grimaced. “I am afraid you are mistaken, sir. Yesterday I offered my hand to Miss Darcy, and ... and she did me the very great honour of accepting it.”  
  
“Miss Darcy,” Mr Bennet repeated, as if unable to believe his ears. “You have offered for Miss Darcy—and she has accepted you? You are engaged to her?”  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
“Are you out of your senses?”  
  
Henry felt still more miserably guilty. “No, sir, I—”  
  
“Have you not always hated this girl? What are you doing?”  
  
Instead of acquiring some part of Catherine’s dignity, it was as if instead he had picked up her awkwardness. “Not at all!” he declared, with more feeling than truth, and promptly realized it. “That is—for a time, I—but I blame myself for that! I am most—most sincerely attached to her, sir, and—”  
  
His father did not attempt to conceal his disbelief, nor his concern. “In other words,” he said, a note of disdain entering his voice, “you are determined to have her. To be sure, Hal, you will be a very great man.” Henry flinched, and Mr Bennet’s tone gentled. “But believe me when I tell you, son, that it will not make you happy, no matter how many horses and jeweled cuff-links it buys you. Or is it a career you are thinking of? I never thought you had aspirations in that direction—or, indeed, any aspirations at all—but if you think the lady a path to realizing some ambition of yours, there are other ways, which will not shackle you for life. It is not too late!”  
  
It was everything he had feared. Henry had to swallow a lump in his throat.  
  
“Have you any other objections, than your belief in my indifference?” he forced himself to ask.  
  
Mr Bennet said instantly, “None at all. We all know her to be a proud, mean-spirited sort of girl, but this would be nothing if you really liked her.”  
  
“I do—I do like her,” Henry said, his voice catching. “I love her.”  
  
Mr Bennet’s eyes widened.  
  
“She has no improper pride. Indeed, hers is an excellent nature, principled, kind, faithful—and dauntless, too. You do not know what she really is. Do not speak of her in such terms.”  
  
All disdain fled from his father’s face, replaced by pity. What was he imagining now?  
  
“Hal, I will give you my blessing,” Mr Bennet said. “I have no wish to quarrel with you, nor for that matter, with so … dauntless a young lady. That quality, at least, is one I can easily believe she possesses. I have no doubt but that she would overwhelm any feeble objections of mine in an instant. If you are resolved on this match, I will not oppose you. But let me advise you to think better of it.”  
  
Henry’s mouth set in stubborn lines, and Mr Bennet sighed.  
  
“I know your disposition, Hal,” he said quietly. “I know, too, what it is to live in an unequal marriage, to lose all respect and regard for the partner of one’s life, the temptations one endures once the first flush of infatuation is past. Do you understand me? She is a very handsome girl, but that is not enough. Certainly I am relieved that I need not regard your motivations as wholly mercenary. I would not wish you to hunt after any woman’s fortune. But think, Hal; think, if you must, of Miss Darcy herself. Your lively spirits make you a very charming dancing-partner, but they will not make you a kind husband once your regard fades. _You_  will not be content to live out your life in your study.”  
  
Henry opened his mouth.  
  
“I do not mean to impugn your honour. Perhaps you will not seek solace in other women, or turn to any of the other diversions that gentlemen in these situations often do, but we both know that if you are miserable in this marriage, you will make her so. You would be neither happy nor respectable, tied to the apron-strings of a woman greatly your inferior. My son, let me not have the grief of seeing  _you_  unable to respect your partner in life. You know not what you are about.”  
  
With a decided effort, Henry did not instantly fly into an impassioned defense of himself, Catherine, and their attachment. Instead, he paced across the room to its single window, pulling the heavy wine-coloured curtains aside to gaze, unseeingly, at the park. He gave himself several minutes to think of a reasoned reply, and assure his father that he really was attending to him.  
  
“With all due respect, sir,” Henry said, “my affection is not the work of a moment. It has been many months since my opinion of her began to change, but I was too proud, too vain to acknowledge it.” He turned around, folding his arms.  
  
“Many months, eh?”  
  
“That was in April,” he said promptly. Mr Bennet looked startled. “You may remember, she paid a visit to her aunt at Rosings while I was at Hunsford. I became aware of her partiality for me, and then that I had been mistaken about a great many things, and acted more unkindly towards her than she had ever done. But you need not think it is merely my vanity at play, though we both know that I keep it in excellent health.”  
  
Mr Bennet chuckled.  
  
“I did not love her then; I did not even wish to see her again.” He walked back, to one of the chairs scattered by his father’s desk, and threw himself into the nearest. “She could only be a reminder of my own folly, and though I regretted my treatment of her, I did not like her. I had realized that she was sensible and clever—and,” he added carefully, “capable of remarkable charity, but I still believed her arrogant, ill-tempered, and, and  _managing._ ” Henry paused. “Well, she is managing, but it is much virtue as flaw. You will understand that when I tell you all.”  
  
“Oh?” said Mr Bennet, his voice very dry.  
  
Henry did not allow himself to be provoked. “Yes. Well, you will recall that my uncle, my aunt, and I went to Derbyshire last summer, where we visited Miss Darcy’s estate. I was not at all eager, I will admit, but I felt some curiosity; I believe, sir, that a person’s nature may be seen more clearly in their behaviour to their dependents than in parlours and ball-rooms. Just think of my brother Wickham.”  
  
“I would rather not,” said Mr Bennet, “but your point is taken. A good landlady, is she?”  
  
“Good, and then some. Universally beloved more nearly approaches the mark.”  
  
Mr Bennet blinked.  
  
“I was astonished, but her housekeeper could not sing her praises loud enough. She had been in the household since before Miss Darcy’s birth, and assured us of how sweet-tempered and kind-hearted Miss Darcy has been since, apparently, her infancy—and how no man could possibly deserve her! Mrs Gardiner’s friends at Lambton, who were less inclined to worship the ground she treads on, agreed that she is remarkably generous, and takes a particular interest in the poor. She even paid Mr Wickham’s debts to the local tradesmen, when he left the area.—Of course, one does not fall in love with a woman because her servants adore her, but knowing how she behaves in matters of real consequence, how far beyond mere obligation she habitually considers her duty, could not help but improve my opinion of her.”  
  
Henry couldn’t read his father’s expression, beyond the remnants of surprise. He rushed on:  
  
“Then, I happened across Miss Darcy herself, and she was exactly as I had just heard her described. She never tries to charm, but she was quite pleasant. She did everything in her power to put us at ease, and even asked me to introduce her to my uncle and aunt. She invited my uncle and I to fish with the gentlemen of our party, brought her sister to meet us—she was everything cordial.”  
  
“And you are sure your partiality does not mislead you? I cannot say I have noticed any great change,” said Mr Bennet.  
  
“No, not here,” Henry said, and simply looked at him for a moment. Then he added, “My uncle and aunt Gardiner, however, were very favourably impressed.”  
  
Mr Bennet’s mouth twitched. “Ah. So it’s the silliness of your mother and younger sister she despises, and not the connections? I suppose I cannot doubt her judgment there.”  
  
Not only silliness, Henry thought, and not only them. He contented himself with, “Their forwardness makes her uncomfortable; she is very reserved. However, she was perfectly agreeable then, and at other times, despite the poor terms of our parting in Kent.”  
  
“You quarrelled with her, hm?”  
  
“I … might have suggested that she would do well to improve her manners,” Henry said.  
  
“Truly,” said Mr Bennet, “the way to a lady’s heart.”  
  
Henry laughed, but quickly sobered. “I cannot imagine another woman’s regard surviving such a blow, except perhaps Jane’s. And Miss Darcy is not like Jane.” He considered. “She is not like anyone. By the time I received Jane’s letters, I had come to admire her intelligence, her good sense, her charity, her compassion, her steadfastness, her generosity, her good temper—I could go on longer, but needless to say, I admired her more than any other woman of my acquaintance. I was only unsure if it was enough to propose marriage. Then Wickham—” He glanced down, his fingers curling. “She and her cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, called at the inn the moment after I read the letters. I was in no state to search for my uncle and aunt, so Fitzwilliam left to find them, while Miss Darcy stayed with me.” He raised his eyes with a ghost of his usual wry smile. “Nothing improper, you understand: she only tried to comfort me. I told her everything.”  
  
Mr Bennet’s eyebrows shot up. “Everything? She knows of the circumstances of Lydia’s marriage?”  
  
Henry gave a small jerk of his head. “Yes. She never breathed a word to anyone, but she—she has known it all, from the beginning. I understand that I should not have divulged it, sir, but it seemed—” He cleared his throat. “It seemed natural, in the moment, to confide in her. I regretted it for a considerable time afterwards, of course. It was while we were searching for Lydia that I realised—I—” Embarrassed, he glanced down. “Two-thirds of our conversations have been arguments, but the, the understanding between us is not the weaker for that: perhaps the stronger. I … missed her, a great deal.”  
  
“We did observe that you seemed to be taking the matter harder than anyone else,” said Mr Bennet, “but of course, the circumstances did not require a secret love-affair of your own to explain it.”  
  
“Not secret,” said Henry quickly. “I simply wanted to be discreet, and to avoid raising expectations I was not certain I wanted to fulfill. I am afraid I do not always know myself very well. I was not aware of the extent of my affections until I had given up hope that they could be returned.” He met his father’s eyes and laughed. “I also became aware of a very great temptation to throw my brother out the window. It was rather a trial to sit down to dinner with him.”  
  
“No doubt,” said Mr Bennet. He chuckled. “Well, my boy, I have no more to say. If this be the case, then she deserves you. You are, I presume, to live at Pemberley after the wedding?”  
  
“Yes,” Henry said. “And I must change my name to hers; it is a condition of her inheritance.”  
  
“So you are to be Mr Darcy of Pemberley in truth?” Mr Bennet’s eyes twinkled; then he turned grave again. “Well, I would not have liked to see you leave Longbourn, my Hal, for anyone less worthy.”  
  
Henry smiled, unable to speak. Then, gathering himself, he forged on. “There is one other thing.”  
  
“Hal, please! I am already overpowered by your lady’s virtues.”  
  
Henry ignored this. “It was Catherine—Miss Darcy, that is—who discovered Lydia, with the aid of her cousin. They knew of some of Mr Wickham’s associates, and bribed one of them to reveal his location. They found him, bargained with him, everything. It was Colonel Fitzwilliam who got his commission, but Miss Darcy paid—she paid for it all. She even bought Lydia’s wedding-clothes, and she swore them all to secrecy. Lydia, fortunately, is terrible at keeping secrets.”  
  
His father had been looked more and more stunned as he progressed. “This is an evening of wonders, indeed! Miss Darcy and this cousin of hers did everything: made up the match, gave the money, paid the fellow’s debts, and got him his commission! The cousin, I apprehend, had no particular interest in the affair?”  
  
“He was Miss Darcy’s guardian until she came of age, and is still her sisters,” said Henry. “He is very fond of her.”  
  
“He must be,” Mr Bennet said. He looked troubled. “So it was all Miss Darcy’s doing. Miss Darcy’s! We owe her a debt of gratitude that can never be repaid, but the rest must and  _shall._ A negligent parent I may be, but I hope not so much that I would permit a young lady scarcely known to me to pay the cost of my failures.”  
  
“I wish you luck,” Henry said cheerfully. “I love her dearly, but she does tend to the obdurate. _I_  have had no success at all in the matter, and if I may say so, sir, she is even less likely to attend to anyone else. It is, alas, my burden to bear;—and, if you will excuse me, I believe I hear my mother calling for me.”


End file.
